


Five Times John Ignored Sherlock's Feet (And One Time He Didn't)

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And The Appreciation Thereof, Don't Judge Me, Ficlet, Five Plus One, M/M, Sherlock's Feet, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin!</p><p>A ficlet posted to honour one solid year of daily "kudos" in my inbox!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times John Ignored Sherlock's Feet (And One Time He Didn't)

**Author's Note:**

> 364 Days of Kudos (and one day without)!
> 
> A year ago today (20 MAR 14), I posted "Art and Nature," the first story in my butler!Sherlock/gardener!John stately home AU series, Dawn Before the Rest of the World. To my surprised delight, my inbox has exclaimed, "You've got Kudos!" every day since! EXCEPT ONE.
> 
> Once it became obvious to me that I was on some kind of streak (I'd never had even a whole uninterrupted week of those "kudos" emails before), I admit that when I saw the numbers going down, and it had been a while since I'd posted, I would hurry up and post something in hopes of keeping the streak going. One dark day in August, 2014, I got just one "kudos". . .and didn't have anything ready to post. The next day: nothin'.
> 
> But that was my only kudos-free day for a YEAR, and I am amazed, flattered, humbled, and excited! Thank you, all you Lovely Readers, for brightening my days with your kindness.
> 
> In return, here is a little, tiny something I hope you will get a little giggle or tingle from. It's "fetish-lite", far from pervy, and ends before the really good stuff happens, so pretty low risk of squick even if you're not as hot for Sherlock's giant fucking feet as I am. I mean, as John Watson is! Not I. I meant John.
> 
> (Yes, writing my own prompt again. . .please, darlings. If you love yr ol' friend Poppy, direct me to--or write for me!--some hot hot smut involving John fucking Sherlock's gorgeous long feet. I'm begging you.)

**I.**

Both crouched beside a corpse. Very romantic and sexy, particularly the smell: early decomp and salty-metallic congealed blood. But, Christ, there it was again. Sherlock rocking for balance toward his right foot’s outer edge. The butter-soft, well-scuffed leather of his long, black shoe (Prada cap-toe oxfords, Sherlock’s favourites) perfectly hugging the outline of his little toe. John cleared his throat four times in quick succession, turned his gaze back to the body on the ground. Blushed.

 

**II.**

Sherlock was in his mind palace. Well, part of him was. The majority of him was hogging the sofa: neck on Mrs H’s needlepoint pillow, unabashed navel on positively _shameless_ display between t-shirt hem and pyjama drawstring (the drift of dark hair that vanished from below it held its own particular appeal), ankles propped on the opposite sofa-arm. Bare soles of his feet rough-edged white in a horseshoe around each heel, the rest surprisingly soft and tender-looking. His arches, dear god. John licked his lip, then bit it.

 

**III.**

“I’m warning you, they’re freezing.”

“S’all right. C’mere. Turn on the light if you need it.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Time’s it?”

“Nearly four.”

“Glad you’re home.”

“You won’t be. Brace yourself.”

“ _Guh!_ ”

“I warned you. Here, nevermind.”

“Don’t you dare. C’mere now. There. Lovely.”

 

**IV.**

John trying to read, same paragraph four times, still not getting it. Sherlock slumps sulkily into his leather armchair, a sprawl that somehow fills the whole flat. Huffs a sigh out his nose, but John won’t be baited. Sherlock slides his feet forward, dexterous toes beneath the cuffs of John’s trousers inching the tops of his socks down, stroking his shin, smoothing along the outsides of his ankles.

“Stop it.”

“Why?” Sounds sincerely quizzical. It’s entirely put-on.

“I’m angry at you.” Rattle the newspaper. Punctuation.

One last upward drag of his big toe, brushing the hairs the wrong way, then he withdraws.

Another sigh, fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, then, at last, he goes. Slams the bedroom door.

 

**V.**

Tight, white shirt (John knows the feel of beaded-up nipples through its quadrillion-thread-count fabric). Close-angled jacket, its single button begging to be popped. And the bum in those trousers should be listed as a war crime, countless innocents left blinded—gasping—in his wake. He smells like a church.

Readying themselves for a proper date, it’s been weeks, and someday. . . _some damn day_. . .John will lock the doors against moments like this: DI Lestrade and his wide-spread knees, sheaves of notes, photos, and reports scattered across the coffee table.

Sherlock is pacing, spinning, over-animated and electric. John’s already thumbing his phone to cancel their dinner reservation. Sherlock, barefoot, steps onto the coffee table, stands there looking down, nudging papers aside with a toe-tip.

He’s painted his toenails glossy blue-black. The saucy bitch.

John steps away to their bedroom with apologetic motions toward the phone, “Hi, yes. Hello. . .” No one there; he hasn’t even dialed. Bites the heel of his hand, hard.

 

*****

Sherlock’s feet in his lap, on the sofa together watching some movie that was supposed to be brilliant but is boring beyond measure, and John works the pad of his thumb hard against the very center of Sherlock’s sole, no bone to accidentally nudge in an uncomfortable direction, no callus or blister to disturb, no ticklish spots (well, he _is_ ticklish, but John uses a firm touch so that instead of yelping and jerking away, Sherlock melts, and purrs, and sometimes lets out the most gorgeous, bordering-on-obscene moans John has ever heard). That lovely, deep spot below the ball of his foot, between the fibrous ribbons cradling the muscles beneath, and as John goes after it, Sherlock hums contentment and closes his eyes.

John works fingertips and thumb around each toe, strokes and pulls just enough to stretch each to its full length from the relaxed, downward curl. There are a few dark, fine hairs on the knuckles of Sherlock’s big toes, and the nails are neatly clipped, clean and free of polish (John has dropped several hints about this; Sherlock has either missed or ignored every last one). John traces his thumb along the outer edge of one perfect little toe (the one he noticed beneath the soft leather of Sherlock's shoe), and has to part his lips to accommodate his breath. A glance at Sherlock: closed-eyed, mildly smiling. Next John rolls his thumbs over and under each other, chasing their way up along the arch of Sherlock’s foot. Sherlock hums deeply, so John does it again. The tendons along the top of Sherlock’s feet create etched angles, and the way they cause his skin to shift and slacken is mesmerizing as John lifts Sherlock’s left foot in both his hands, rocks it to flex and point, pinches and strokes the Achilles’ tendon at the back of his ankle and makes him groan.

“Sherlock.”

A craggy whisper.

“Mm?” The eyes stay closed but the eyebrows go up. Still smiling, and now— _maybe?_ —the smile looks a bit. . .lewd.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to try.” John directs Sherlock by a hand on his shin, and then his long, pale, gorgeous, crazymaking, utterly naked feet are flat against the tops of John's thighs. He rests his palms on Sherlock’s insteps and feels the tendons flex upward against his touch, sharp and vulnerable. He places the soles of Sherlock’s feet exactly where he wants them, rocks his hips up a bit, the rough denim of his fly pressing into Sherlock’s arches, and John sucks his teeth despite himself.

Sherlock lets out a lazy hum, and there is mischief in his voice when he says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again, Lovely Readers! I am touched and humbled by your time and generous encouragement, each and every day.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not a Fetish, Merely a Keen Preoccupation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036978) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander)




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